33. The Idea of Living in Paris is Taking Hold.
I’m starting to think America isn’t the right fit for me anymore.
This is the 33rd article in the publication, Inside Me Inside Paris, a work-in-progress memoir about my deep-dive into Paris & my journey to find my true soul amidst the onslaught of depression…
C’est 3 aoüt 2016.
I took the metro from my flat in the 20th Arrondissement all the way to Neuilly sur Seine, a suburb on the west side of Paris, to have dinner with Nico and Solène at their home. I last saw them at the Jardin du Luxembourg picnic last month, which was exquisite and memorable and perfect and how all my picnics are going to be. The last time Nico and I were out, he was a gleefully tipsy from all the wine we drank at the picnic AND the wine at the wine bar in Bastille. I enjoy seeing drunk Nico, but Solène wasn’t too happy about that.
The family I made for the last nine years with my ex-fiancèe Julia and her family and friends is virtually gone now that we’re no longer together. I’m trying not to thinking about this while I’m holed up in Paris, but, shit, nine whole years. Poof. The only people left from that family are Nico and Solène. They’ve been so sweet to me since I’ve been in Paris, I need to make sure I’m not a bad influence on Nico. He’d make a pretty damn good wingman, but I think he’s turned in his wings for good. Maybe I should too. Nah.
The Poissons are an example of the professional Parisien couple. Nico is half-Italian and half-French and Solène is officially a Daughter of the American Revolution. Their little girl Athénaïs, with whom they balance two demanding professional jobs, was sleeping while Nico was slicing up the salami. I didn’t eat a full dinner before I came so I devoured the charcuterie and the Belgian beers.
Tonight would’ve been a perfect night for a toke. It was warm and still and c’mon, I’m hanging with my Paris family! But I STILL haven’t found any weed. The weed guy that Sarah from Le Pigalle gave me a few days ago has been blowing off my texts and I have no other leads in sight. I haven’t gone this long — a month and counting — without having weed. It’s annoying and it’s messing with my psyche. How weed isn’t legal on the entire planet is so archaic — I mean, alcohol and prescription drugs are legal — and they’re terrible for you. Actually, maybe it’s good I’m not stoned tonight. I would’ve talked their ears off all night and it’s a school night for the Poissons. Either way, I’ll have to be the responsible one to watch the clock. They’d be too nice to kick me out.
I’m poking around the house as I tend to do when I want to get to know my friends better. Perusing the bookcases, picture frames, the refrigerator door, I found several tchotchkes and photos commemorating their visits to America, including a photo book of their trip up and down the coast of California, visiting places even I haven’t been to. There’s a Chicago Cubs hat and a book about Nike sneakers and New Yorker magazine covers as art pieces on the wall. The Poissons have a sweet love for the United States of America.
Generally, Parisiens appreciate the eclectic global culture and needle-moving energy of American cities like Los Angeles and New York. The Poissons, in particular, see America through the lens of a visual and emotional vibe of a Nike commercial. And also through me. I represent America to them. I actually take that job very seriously. It’s vital to set a good example of America, especially right now in this election year. So much mishigas in the United States of America and so much that we impose on the world, the least we can do is be good citizens in the world.
We can be a special place. We are special people. Yet a lot of Americans don’t comprehend the responsibility. So many just run around amok with an entitlement that I don’t comprehend. I’m appalled by the American tourists here, acting the way they do, like shitty house guests with no manners.
Our country is doing a bit too much surface plastic surgery on itself, a deluded aging movie star, Norma Desmond¹-like, artificially preserving the illusion of the good ol’ American Dream and its vision of being The World’s Superhero. But rather than using its super powers and leadership to be of service to the world and play well with others, including its own inhabitants, we’re still brandishing and milking the worn out superhero badge that we earned way the fuck back in World War II.
As the looming presidential election is happening in three months, bubbling to the surface are the underrepresented and un-heard Americans stirred by Donald Trump as its savior that is displaying an undercurrent of ugly America that has everyone on edge here in Paris, Nico and Solène included, wondering what the hell we Americans are up to. I’ve been feeling out of sorts about my own country lately, and more so, as I enter the second month of three in Paris.
As I took a bite of the camembert cheese, existential thoughts about my relationship with America came to mind. I feel more at home here in Paris. I enjoy the people, I enjoy the eclectic culture and the spirit of the joie de vivre. The molecules in the room have a much more worldly vibration here. In Paris as a whole, I am feeling my DNA changing.
Maybe America isn’t the right fit for me anymore. I’m completely detached from my own family in the States. I don’t have nuanced conversations about the world at large with my American friends, the way my Parisien friends do, and I find this startling. The authentic and vibrant connection I make with my international friends is so much more fulfilling. Did I prioritize the wrong crowd all my life? Does my struggle to feel authentically connected with my friends in the States and the growing disconnect with what America is becoming have something to do with my depression and empty feelings? If I’m going to get past my suicidal tendencies, maybe I need to get the hell out of Dodge.
FOOTNOTES:
¹Norma Desmond was the main female character in Paramount Pictures’ 1950 film, entitled “Sunset Blvd,” directed by Billy Wilder, about an aging actress still holding on to her vain and glory. This is the movie from which the famous line, “I’m ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille!”
Thank you very much for reading this memoir I’m workshopping. Looking for publishers! I’m a writer/photographer based in Burbank, California. Some of my work is visible on my Instagram.
Follow this publication “Inside Me Inside Paris” for more Paris adventures.
Also, please click ✋🏾 to help generate more visibility for this post.
